


Too Old for This

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Short One Shot, poor john just needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's nightmares aren't just about the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Old for This

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for child abuse, drunkenness, language. If you'd like to skip the descriptions of violence, skip the italics.

_His heart was racing, but how could that be if he wasn't even connected to his body? He was somewhere else, floating a few feet away while a 12 year old version of himself clung to Harry's waist, barely preventing the punches she was swinging from landing on their enraged father's face. Their father, luckily, was quite drunk. Sober enough to be on his feet, and sober enough to see that his only daughter was trying her damnedest to pulverize him, but drunk enough to let it slide... mostly._

_When it came, John felt the slap like a shock to his own body, even though it was Harry who had been hit. She staggered to the side, half falling over John on her way to the floor. She and John stayed there, huddled on the ground for a few breathless moments, while their father assessed them with bloodshot eyes. He finally ran his hand through his hair, making it nearly stand on end with unwashed filth, mumbled something incomprehensible, and turned to leave. He swayed, but caught himself on the doorframe._

_It all would have been fine, if Harry could have kept her mouth shut, John remembered thinking. He knows better now._

_"So you're leaving then, right? That's what this is about? Mum's up there catatonic and you're flaking out, just like you always do, you bloody useless fuck!"_

_Suddenly, Harry was being thrown across the room by the collar of her shirt, while John watched, forgotten in the corner. His left hand shook, so he sat on it, bringing his knees up to his chest, trying his best to be invisible. Harry landed hard, her back slamming into a kitchen chair and her head cracking on a beer bottle that had been left on the floor. The sound made John's stomach churn._

_"Get up, 'arry, stupid shit teenagers, always sayin' stupid shit things..." their father's voice slurred, before he turned back to the door. John listened to his departure, thankful the man managed to leave the building without falling down a flight of stairs.  
_

_Harry wasn't getting up. She always got up, so something was definitely wrong, because suddenly she was so pale and there was blood on the floor by her head, and-_

John woke with his heart in his throat and the remnants of a shallow gasp on his lips. He could feel his pulse in every inch of his face, and his lungs were on fire. He blinked a few times, then ran the back of his hand against his eyes to clear them of the tears that had gathered there against his will. Inhale and exhale. Count to ten. Breath until he can feel his fingers and toes again, and then get up. He was used to this; he had a system. Nothing new.

After a few minutes, he felt that he'd mastered his breathing and lowered his blood pressure enough to safely navigate the stairs. John eased himself out of bed, mindful of his aching knees _(real pain, focus on that)_ and the stabbing sensation in his thigh _(you are too old for this psychosomatic bullshit, John)_. He stretched briefly, giving his body some time to adjust to being upright, and readied himself for the journey downstairs.

There were two typical options for what would transpire when he went downstairs. One option was, in the event that Sherlock was asleep or so engrossed in an experiment that he was totally oblivious to the world, John would make it downstairs with some amount of stiff difficulty, lay down on the couch, and watch some kind of idiotic late-night talk show while he dozed until morning. The second option (which John personally found preferable, though he'd never admit it to Sherlock) was that Sherlock would be awake and, having heard John wake from a nightmare, would have a cup of tea waiting for him by the couch. Sherlock tended to stay up those nights, keys clicking incessantly on his laptop keyboard, or running a quietly-spoken commentary on whatever puzzle he was working on at the time. They didn't talk about it. One could argue that "not talking about it" was a specialty of theirs. Still, there was an understanding; John was comforted by Sherlock's presence, and Sherlock knew that, so he stayed. 

Tonight seemed like it would be the second option. Once John had found the bottom of the stares, feeling a bit more worse for wear than he usually did, or at least worse than when he dreamt about the war, he slumped into the couch with a soft sigh of relief before grabbing the tea waiting for him on the coffee table. Sherlock was perched in his chair across the room, violin dangling from one hand, using the end of the bow to scratch the top of his head. John's eyes slipped closed as they sat quietly, and he nearly forgot to sit the half-emptied mug back on the table before it toppled out of his hand. Once that was done, he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, and looked up to see Sherlock wearing a slightly perplexed expression.

"What?" John asked, not entirely sure if he wanted an answer, but also fairly sure he was going to find out whether he asked or not.

"Hm... oh, it's-" Sherlock answered, turning away and flipping his hand around as if he hadn't just been staring, eyebrows pinched and eyes narrowed. "it's nothing. Never mind me."

"It's not nothing, out with it," John countered, curious now. It wasn't typical for Sherlock to surrender an opportunity to show off, but perhaps this was encroaching on the  _not talking about it_ territory. 

Sherlock huffed out a short breath and turned to face John, gazing at him critically. His nose crinkled a bit before he spoke, as if he was just confusing himself further by trying to figure it all out.

"It wasn't about the war this time," is what Sherlock finally says, and after that he stays quiet, though John was hoping there was a bit more to it. Not a lot of material to work with, there.

"Uh, no," is the only answer John can think of because, well, what do you say to that? 

"Approximately 45% of your nightmares are about the war. Another 12% are extraneous, random. But the other 43%- they all focus on a similar subject matter. They affect you more. Your movements are more stiff, and you're more flushed afterwards. Which is odd, considering your PTSD is from the war. Except perhaps it isn't? I didn't actually read the medical files Mycroft sent me. And your therapist takes abysmal notes, not that you ever told her anything much to begin with-" Sherlock cut himself off abruptly when he realized John was staring at him, open-mouthed and halfway to something that closely resembled anger. 

"You don't know," was the response John settled on, choosing to ignore the fact that Sherlock was apparently reading his psych notes.

"What 43% of your nightmares are about? No, I don't."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Three AM doesn't tend to be a 'kidding' time of day, last time I checked."

"But you're Sherlock Holmes. You can't possibly, seriously, tell me that you haven't figured out something might be amiss in my family life."

"So it is to do with your family?"

"You're unbelievable. You really don't know!" John continued, talking over Sherlock now, incredulous. He rolled onto his back on the couch, laughing sardonically to himself. Sherlock sighed in response, waiting for John to quiet before he continued.

"I could deduce it now, probably. Or you could tell me."

"Right, because I clearly enjoy talking about my shit childhood. Ta."

"Family problems, childhood. That should be enough for me to go on-"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. My father was an abusive alcoholic, alright? It's not a secret. I thought you knew and just had the sense not to bring it up," John spat out, angry at first, but his words lost their venom halfway through. He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly through pursed lips. No reason to punish Sherlock for trying to care. "It was a long time ago, Sher," he continued, shaking his head a bit as if to clear it. "It was a long time ago and I'm too old for this. It's fine. He's dead, mum's dead, Harry's dead too, for all I know. It doesn't matter anymore."

Sherlock stood and walked towards the couch, settling himself down near John's feet and tucking his own legs underneath him. (Sometimes John thought he looked like a human origami sculpture.) Once Sherlock settled, John tucked his cold toes under Sherlock's thigh, chuckling slightly at the sharp intake of air he heard in response. Sherlock reached out a hand and rested it on John's left shin, keeping still aside from his thumb slowly stroking a circle on John's leg through the fabric of his pajamas. John's eyelids grew heavy, and eventually drifted closed.

"It always matters, John," Sherlock murmured after several minutes of quiet, in which John had nearly fallen back to sleep. "It's alright for it to matter. You're not too old. Aging doesn't make it irrelevant."

"Yeah, I... I know. I hate it," John answered, not bothering to open his eyes this time.

"That's allowed. I'm sorry if I was a bit-"

"No, no, it's fine. You're fine," John said, slurring slightly as he fell back to sleep, pushing his foot further underneath Sherlock's legs in search of warmth. Sherlock stood again, but shortly after, John felt a soft blanket envelop him and Sherlock's hand briefly rubbing his shoulder.

"You rest, John. I'll just be doing some research. I'm considering expanding my tobacco ash data..." was the last thing John heard before he drifted off, to a thankfully dreamless sleep.


End file.
